Between Blue and Goodnight
by TdeAlba
Summary: A series of What if One shots. Various characters. Chapter III Little Girls: What if Natalie never made it out of AC?
1. Chapter 1 Saving Lives

Disclaimers: I don't own these characters; they're property of ABC and whoever.

Also have to confess to stealing another title (because I'm no good with titles). This one's a translation of the song title "Entre azul y buenas noches" by Jeans. The song really has nothing to do with these fics, I've just always loved the image… it seems to me to be the place where everything is possible. So don't feel like you need to look up the song, if you haven't heard it (in fact, be glad, otherwise I've probably just gotten it stuck in your head). Though, if you _have_ heard the song, or even heard of the group, give yourself 50 cool points (no, what am I thinking, don't do that. You should probably lose that many cool points…)

Author's note: So… trying something different here. I'm going to try not stating up front what the "What if" scenario is because I want to keep ya'll guessing. If anyone has any suggestions for scenarios, please send them my way, the only requirement is I'd prefer one that someone hasn't already written. Random is good. Feedback, of course, appreciated (especially since this first chapter is kind of out of my element)

* * *

**I. Saving Lives**

She moved her hand to cover his, caressing it for half a moment before she seemed to realize it wasn't quite appropriate. Quickly she pulled it back, drumming her fingers quietly on the sides of her coffee mug. She couldn't quite bring herself to look at him so she stared into her coffee, waiting for him to speak.

But he didn't; all she heard was the low hum of the other patrons in the café as the space between them grew progressively more awkward.

"Please," she said when she couldn't take it anymore, "I need you to understand."

"Well explain it to me again," he said in a voice that was taut with some mix of hurt and anger, "because apparently I'm a little slow."

"He needs me," she said.

"I don't care about him," he said.

"I do," she said quickly in as firm a voice as she could manage, "I care about him a lot."

"But you don't love him," he said with much assurance than she could say much of anything.

She didn't respond. She couldn't. No matter what she said it wasn't going to help, wasn't going to change anything. "He's been through a lot," she insisted, silently pleading with him to let that be enough. To let this go. To let her go.

"We all have," he said, "but the only one I'm worried about here is you."

She shook her head and still refused to meet his eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Jen," he said grabbing her hand suddenly, "his father almost killed you. Have you forgotten that?"

"It's not his fault," she protested.

"It's not yours either," he said not relinquishing her hand, "you don't owe him anything."

"Not as much as I owe you," she said finally looking into his eyes which she was surprised to see brimming with tears. "You saved my life Rex. If you hadn't come into that garage when you did Mr. Colson would have-"

"Shh," he said putting a finger to her lips, "don't even think about it."

She flinched away from his hand and pulled her hand out of his while she was at it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No, don't be, it's just-"

"You're with Riley now."

"He needs me," she repeated. It was almost becoming a chant. "I'm sorry."

"What if I said that I needed you?" he asked those intense eyes driving into her skull.

"You don't," she said shaking her head and looking down again.

"I do," he insisted.

"No," she said, "you want me. And it's… it's actually nice to hear, but it's not the same."

"And that's what you want?" he asked sounding slightly disgusted, "you want some guy who needs you? Who can't stand up on his own?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"Why? How?"

She tucked a lock of silky blonde hair behind her ears, searching for the right words, "Okay, like I said, you saved me. You saved me from going to jail, you saved me from Mr. Colson and I know that if I ever needed saving again you would be there to do it."

"I would," he nodded, "because I love you."

She fought to keep the declaration from bringing tears to her eyes. "But that's the problem—I don't want to be the girl who needs saving anymore."

"You want to be the one doing the saving," he said softly. There was resignation in his voice. Was he finally starting to understand?

"I want to know that I _can_ be the one doing the saving," she said. "I want to know that I can be the strong one for once."

"Okay," he said, "I get it. But you can do all of that here."

She shook her head sadly. "But Riley can't. Everyone in town knows about his dad now. What he did, why he did it. He'd have to live with that day in and day out. He needs a fresh start somewhere else."

"And he needs you," Rex said.

She nodded and drained the dregs of her cup. "Thank you for understanding."

"I don't," he said.

"But you-"

"Look I'll accept it," he said, "because I don't think I really have much choice in the matter. But I don't think I'll ever understand why you would choose to be with that-"

"Don't," she said holding up a hand as if to stoop him.

"If he ever hurts you-" he warned.

"I'll take care of it," she said. Her meaning was clear; she wanted him to stay out of it. She needed him to stop fighting her battles. She needed to save some lives for herself.

She reached out for his hand one last time, "Good-bye Rex. Thank you so much for everything. I'll never be able to repay you."

He squeezed her hand, "Just stay in touch, you know. If you ever ne—if you ever want to talk." He'd almost said to call if she needed him, but she'd made it clear enough that she didn't want that to happen.

She smiled at him as she gathered her purse. "Take care. You're going to find a really great girl soon, and I hope she makes you happy."

And she left. As though that promise that he was going to find someone else held any truth. As if he even wanted to move on. He would never regret saving her, but why had he lost her anyway? He sat there for a moment, letting his coffee cool as her warmth dissipated.

Just as her perfume started to fade his cell phone rang. "Hello," he said impatiently.

"Hey Balsom, it's Bo Buchanan, I have a few loose ends I need to tie up with the Colson case, can you come down to the station?"

"Yeah," he said trying to lose the hitch in his voice, to regain his composure, "sure, I'll be right there."

"Balsom?" Bo asked sounding concerned, "everything okay?"

"Yeah," he said, "it's great, it's just… Jen's gone, Bo."

* * *

Author's note 2: Barring some sudden inspiration this will be the only chapter with these two. But I am interested in experimenting with other characters, so seriously, I'm open to suggestion. 


	2. Hand Prints on her Body

Author's note: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers. Title of this chapter is a lyric from the (otherwise unrelated) Corrs song "Queen of Hollywood"

* * *

**Chapter 2: Hand Prints on her Body**

"Johnny?" Michael's voice was hushed as if he didn't want to be overheard. Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" John asked quickly.

"Look, I need you to understand I am seriously pushing the boundaries of doctor/patient confidentiality and putting my medical license on the line," Michael said.

"Michael," he asked, "What is it?"

"You need to get down to the hospital now," Michael said gravely, "Meet me in the ER but don't act like it's planned."

As he raced to the hospital John tried to work out what was going on. His brother wouldn't be acting this way if it wasn't serious. He wanted to meet him in the ER and had made a reference to confidentiality. It obviously had something to do with a patient, one who didn't want whatever was wrong reported to the police. That either meant injuries obviously incurred while committing a crime or that someone was the victim of a crime and feared retribution from whoever had committed it.

Michael met him in the corridor looking a little too nonchalant. "Johnny!" he said brightly, "how's it going?"

"Michael what's-"

Michael took him by the arm and nudged him closer to one of the exam room doors. "So you get what you needed from that witness in the ICU?" he asked loudly.

Studying his brother's face and trying to determine the nature of the scenario he was supposed to be playing along with. "Yeah, I um-"

"Great! Well if you're done here I have a patient who needs a ride home," Michael said pushing open the door, "mind giving her a lift?"

As Michael opened the door to the room John's heart stopped for a moment. It was Natalie. It took him a moment to confirm that because he was shocked how much she'd changed in the months since he'd seen her; she'd lost weight, there were heavy circles under her eyes, and she looked as though she'd aged a decade. Wearing a hospital gown, hunched uneasily on the bed, she looked a John with terror.

"Natalie?" he asked unable to stop himself from taking a step forward, "What happened?"

Her mouth made a movement that was more of a tremble than an attempt to speak before Michael inserted himself between them. "Not that you didn't already know she was crazy, but this nut here drove herself here with two cracked ribs and a partially collapsed lung."

He felt a surge of anger as he asked the next totally unnecessary question, "How did that happen?"

She looked down at her lap and said softly, "A bookcase…"

"A bookcase fell on her," Michael explained, "but here's the crazy thing—you don't mind if I show him do you?"

Natalie made some sort of weak protest as he tugged at the back of her gown. He ignored her and continued, "It left this bruise that looks exactly like a footprint."

John caught a glimpse of what was very clearly the outline of a large shoe on Natalie's side before she jerked the gown closed, wincing in pain. It took every once of control he had to stay calm, but he knew that the last thing she needed right now was him overreacting. Not that it really would be overreacting…

He looked steadily into her eyes and, visibly shaking now, she met his gaze. Without looking away he asked, "Is she going to be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael assured him, "We've got her ribs all taped and her lung reopened. She'll be fine I just didn't think she should drive herself home. We gave her some pretty strong pain killers."

"I'll give her a ride," John said forcing his voice to stay even.

In a voice barely above a whisper she said, "It's not necessary, I'll call a cab."

"Don't be silly," Michael insisted maintaining his forced cheer, "John's here, he doesn't mind. Might as well make him do something useful."

Natalie looked back and forth between the two brothers, realizing that arguing would get her nowhere she simply nodded and looked down. "We'll get out of here and let you get dressed then," Michael said, "you want me to send a nurse in to help you?"

"I'll be fine," she mumbled.

Michael had to tug on John's arm to get him to follow him out of the room. "Mikey?" he asked slowly, still stunned.

"Yes," Michael said gravely, "that is exactly what it looks like. Someone kicked the hell out of her."

John shut his eyes; he knew exactly who and he wanted to kill him, but he couldn't completely absolve himself of blame. He'd been afraid this would happen. No, he'd known this would happen; he'd warned her. And yet in the end he'd let her brush him aside and push him away… and he was lucky it wasn't worse.

"What are you going to do?" Michael demanded.

He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, "Not a whole lot I _can_ do. Legally. If she won't press charges. Won't admit who's doing this."

Michael stared at him in shock. "Johnny, you dug up a grave for this woman. Since when do you care about legal restrictions?"

Before he could answer, Natalie opened the door and joined them in the hallway. Her clothes hung on her making it even more obvious how much weight she'd lost. She didn't make eye contact or say anything as Michael gave her some final instructions. Neither she nor John spoke as she signed herself out and followed him out to his car. He opened the door for her and she climbed in obediently.

As he situated himself in the driver's seat he thought back to the last time he'd seen her.

* * *

He had stepped out of his office when he heard a commotion. Jessica had just charged into the station with Antonio following closely at her heels calling, "Jess, please, don't do this!" 

Seeing John she asked, "Is my Uncle in?" She looked furious about something

"I think he's in a meeting," he said, "is there a problem?"

"No," Antonio said firmly.

Jessica shot him a dirty look, "Antonio-"

"We don't know the whole story," he pleaded with her. Jessica didn't seem convinced.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"Have you seen Natalie today?" Jessica asked.

He hadn't seen Natalie in weeks. Not since she made it clear that she needed him to stay away while she and Cristian got their lives back on track. He shook his head.

"Maybe you should," Jessica said.

"Is something wrong with Natalie?" he asked his pulse unwillingly beginning to race.

"She's fine," Antonio assured him as he shepherded Jessica towards the door. Jessica sent him a final look that seemed to plead with him not to take Antonio's word for this.

He hesitated only a few minutes after they left before making his way to Llanfair where Natalie and Cristian were still staying the last he'd heard. He knew he wasn't welcome, but he wasn't about to stay away if Natalie was in some kind of trouble.

She answered the door herself and jumped when she saw it was him. "John?" she said looking around as though she were afraid of being seen, "what are you doing here?"

He hadn't been sure himself until he looked at her face and then the blue blot on her left cheekbone made it perfectly clear what had upset her sister. "Jessica came by the station. She was worried about you, said I should come check on you."

"I'm fine," she said not sounding convincing at all and not stepping aside to let him enter.

"Where'd that bruise come from?" he asked.

She shook her head, "It's not what you're thinking."

"What?" he asked tensely, "you fall down the stairs?"

"No," she said, "I…" she looked around again and hissed, "I startled him okay. I came up behind him; he didn't know it was me."

"Natalie-" he began fighting the urge to drag her from the house.

"Look I know how it sounds," she pleaded, "but he's been through a lot. He's getting help. It won't happen again."

"You don't think maybe he should be living somewhere else while he's getting help?" he asked.

"He's my husband, John," she insisted. "He belongs with me."

He would have continued to argue the point but he heard Cristian calling her name from somewhere within the house. Looking worried she said, "You shouldn't be here, John. Please don't come back. I'll be fine." And she shut the door in his face. He hadn't seen her since.

He heard that she and Cristian had moved into an apartment across town. Nobody seemed to see much of them; evidently they were keeping to themselves. He'd been worried. He'd spent whole nights awake worrying about her, wondering about her. But he hadn't tracked her down; she'd made it clear he wasn't welcome. He worried he made things worse for her and he told himself there were other people who would look out for her. Evidently they hadn't.

And maybe if he'd made a little more effort she wouldn't be sitting there battered in his passenger side seat.

* * *

She spoke finally to say in a voice eerily devoid of emotion, "You missed the turn." 

When he didn't respond or turn around she said, "My apartment's-"

"You're not going back there," he said simply.

"Oh I'm not?" she said, "where am I going then, pray tell." She still had some spirit. That was a good sign.

"There's a shelter over on Oakton," he said.

"I'm not going to a battered women's shelter, John. I don't need one. You have no idea what's going on."

"I have no idea where you got a bookcase with size thirteen boots either," he said.

"John," she said softly, plaintively.

"Your mom's house then," he suggested, "or your Uncle Bo's."

"Would you please just take me home," she pleaded.

"That's the one place I'm not going to take you," he said. Deciding that they needed to have this conversation while he could give it his full attention, he pulled into a parking lot nearby.

As he put the car in park and turned to her she said, more to herself than to him, "I should have known Michael would call you."

"Yeah," he said nodding. He waited for a moment and asked, "So Cris doesn't know you went to the hospital, does he?"

"He wasn't home when it happened," she said looking straight ahead.

"Look, I don't think either of us believes that story-"

She continued. There was an urgency to her voice as though she were begging him to believe her. "I was trying to put something on the top shelf of the bookcase. I couldn't reach so I put my foot on the bottom shelf, which was stupid I know, and the whole thing just collapsed."

"Natalie," he said softly, his heart breaking to see what had become of the headstrong, vibrant young woman he had reluctantly given up when the husband he took away from her came back from the dead.

Her breath grew ragged and he could hear the tears in her eyes even without looking at her, "It was just a bookcase… I swear…"

He wanted to comfort her and tell her it was okay, but it wasn't and they both knew it. After everything the least she deserved was the truth. He turned to look at her; her eyes were closed and she was shaking all over. He raised a hand to touch her face but stopped himself. He didn't think she'd welcome his touch, or anyone else's for that matter, at the moment.

"Let me call your mother," he said.

"No!" she said opening her eyes and turning towards him, "I can't get her involved in this!" A look passed between them as they realized at the same moment that a part of the wall she was trying to keep between them had just broken. Her exclamation had just confirmed that she was afraid of something worse than unsteady furniture.

"Tell me what to do," he said.

"Take me home," she pleaded.

"I can't do that," he said. "I'll call Jessica, I'll call Rex. I'll call your father and put you on a plane to England if that's what you want. But I can't let you go back to a man who just beat the hell out of you."

For a moment he thought she was going to keep arguing with him and then a tear slipped out of her eye. And then as he watched it was as though her entire face, the mask she'd been wearing for months, the face of a young bride deliriously happy over her reunion with her husband dissolved.

As she began sobbing he said again, "Just tell me what you want me to do."

"I don't know," she whimpered, "I don't know. I don't know how this happened. I don't know what to do. I can't think."

"Okay," he said gently as he put he car back into drive, "come on."

He drove to a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town. It wasn't the kind of place he wanted to put Natalie in, but if they went to his room in Angel Square or to The Palace there was too high a chance of someone seeing them and getting word back to Cristian. He was somewhat surprised when she didn't make any protest as he checked them into a single room. She was so torn he couldn't be completely sure that left alone she wouldn't try to make her way home and besides, at this kind of place they aroused a lot less suspicion as a couple.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed as he went outside to fill the ice bucket. Mutely, she took the glass of ice water that he brought her a moment later. "You hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Let me know if you want me to order something," he said.

"You can go, John," she said.

He shook his head as he sat down beside her. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"You think Evangeline's gonna be okay with this?" she asked with more than a trace of bitterness in her voice.

It took him a minute to understand why she would ask that and then he realized how much she had been secluded from the rest of Llanview over the past several months. "I don't think she'll care," he said, "we aren't together anymore."

Natalie looked more confused than surprised by this, "Why?"

"You don't need to worry about that right now," he said.

She laughed harshly, "John you have no idea how much it helps to think of other people's problems instead of mine."

He took a deep breath, "You remember when I first got suspicious of Cristian and I had that DNA test run?"

"And it proved that he really was Cristian?" she reminded him.

"Yeah, well, when it turned out I was wrong it really upset her for some reason. She kept saying I only suspected him because I wanted there to be something wrong. That my concern for you was more than friendly. And one night I finally just told her she was right... Evidently she's dating some lawyer now."

Natalie looked at him disbelieving for a moment and then turned her face away from his, "John, he's still my husband."

"Yeah," he said. He wanted to argue with her; tell her that it didn't matter, but he sensed that he needed to let her talk.

She shook her head, "I can't just walk out on him, he needs me. He's been through so much… he just needs help that's all."

"The last time," he knelt down in front of her to make it harder for her to look away, "you told me he was going to get help."

"He was going to. He did. I think," she said still looking at some distant point past his eyes, "I don't know if he ever went I just know about a month ago Rex saw him out at a bar when he was supposed to be in therapy."

"Did you talk to him about it?" he asked.

She nodded.

"What did he say?"

She shivered. "He wasn't in the mood to talk." He didn't push. Didn't know if he could stomach hearing what Cristian had done to her that night.

"Rex knows what's been going on?" He had plenty of problems with Balsom, but if he had any redeeming quality it was his affection for his sister. He couldn't fathom Rex allowing someone to abuse her this way.

She shook her head. "I haven't seen much of him. Cris doesn't like him very much so…"

"And your family?"

"They've had other things on their minds. Ever since we found out about Tess and she confessed to killing Tico. That's why you can't tell them, John, my mom's heart couldn't take it."

"I won't tell anyone until you're ready," he promised.

She took a sip of her water. "It's not as bad as you think it is. Most of the time he's fine. It's usually just when he drinks."

"Has he been drinking a lot lately?"

She ignored the question. "And afterwards… once he realizes what he's done he feels so bad. John, last night he was just cried himself to sleep in my lap. If you could have seen him-"

He had been struggling since he saw her to keep his anger under control, but her showing pity on that man, excusing his actions was too much. Before he could stop himself he said, "And I'm sure he'll feel terrible when he kills you Natalie, but it's not going to make you any less dead."

"Cristian would never-"

"Don't tell me he would never kill you because it wasn't that long ago you were swearing to me he would never hurt you, and we both know that turned out to be wrong."

She hugged herself more tightly and bit her lower lip. Blinking back tears. "What happened last night?" he asked gently, regretting his outburst.

She looked into his eyes smiled a strange smile. A mix of tenderness and irony with a hit of regret. "He found a picture of you."

"Of me?"

She nodded. "From a while back. Roxy took it… I don't even remember when but she gave it to me. Before Cristian came back. I don't know why I kept it—I knew Cris would be furious if he found it. I had it hidden in my underwear drawer and I guess he must have been going through the dresser while I was in the shower last night. Sometimes he gets suspicious—thinks I'm hiding things from him… I guess he was right."

"He did this because of a picture?" John asked, unable to comprehend the mind of a man who could do something like this to a woman he claimed to love.

She looked down, "There's more to it than that."

"I don't understand," he said.

She looked away as though transfixed by something in the corner of the room and said with a distant voice. "He deserved so much better… He went through a year of torture, things I can't even imagine. He fought his way back to me through all that and I… I couldn't even wait for him. It was only a year-"

"You didn't know he was coming back," he reminded her.

She shook her head, "And when he came back I couldn't even love him the way he deserved. I still love him, John, I do, but I couldn't get you out of my head, or out of my heart. And I think he sensed it somehow. I think he knew."

The tears began to flow again as it sunk in that this was his fault. Everything that had happened to her was because she got involved with him, because she was foolish enough to care about him. He caressed her cheek as gently as possible and leaned closer to her as he said, "Natalie, this isn't your fault. Okay, whatever else you want to believe about this trust me when I tell you that this isn't your fault. Whatever he deserved or you feel like you owe him it's not this. It's not letting him beat the hell out of you every time he gets upset."

She didn't say anything. She just shut her eyes and let herself lean ever so slightly into his touch. He ran his hand over her hair and on the back of her head his fingers brushed something rough that didn't belong mixed in with the silk of her hair. Without being asked she turned her head so he could see a scaly, scabbed area about the size of a silver dollar where the hair had apparently been yanked out.

"Kind of hard to blame that on the furniture," he said fighting to control the new surge of anger that the sight aroused in him.

She took his wrist in her hand and gently pulled his hand away, not relinquishing it immediately but holding it in her lap. "I tried to walk away while we were arguing. He pulled me back…" She began trembling again and her expression changed back to fear. "John, he's not going to let me walk away. He's not going to let me-"

"Shh," he said bringing his face within inches of hers. He brushed his thumb tenderly over her cheek. "I'm not going to let him hurt you again. I swear to you, Natalie, whatever happens he will never lay a hand on you again. I will not let you go back to that man so he can kill you, because that is what's going to happen eventually, you know that."

She shook her head but made no verbal protest. "Natalie," he said, "I love you too much to let that happen." Her eyes widened in surprise and locked with his.

Through tears she laughed bitterly, "Now you tell me."

"I'm sorry," he said tears coming to his own eyes, "I'm so sorry."

She brought a shaky finger to his lips, "John, can we just not talk for a little bit?"

He nodded as she shut her eyes and slowly leaned her head foreword across the inches between them until their foreheads touched. Then finally, and he was never sure which one of them initiated it, their lips met. He kissed her gently, as tenderly as he could even as her swollen lips parted eagerly at the faintest pressure of his tongue. He kissed her as though it had some hope of drying her tears. Kissed her and then rose to sit beside her, pulling her into his lap, and letting her battered body rest in his strong protective arms.


	3. Little Girls

**Disclaimers**: All the usual apply.

**Author's Note**: I have no clue where this one came from and I'm honestly a little disturbed as to what part of my mind came up with it… I'm out of ideas after this one, so suggestions are welcome (email me)

Advisory for language and adult content.

* * *

"Agent McBain?" the police department receptionist said approaching him nervously. 

He looked up at her as she pushed a file towards him.

"This is the file you requested on the witness in the Melikov case," she said smiling meekly as she turned and walked back to her desk.

He looked in at the woman again. The abbreviated skirt and the stiletto thigh high boots left little doubt as to her occupation and the sunken quality of her face and the way she shivered under her leather jacket left little doubt as to why she'd chosen it. If she took off the jacket he knew the veins of her arms would be mapped out in snaking black lines. Who says heroin's on the way out? He thought to himself bitterly.

He studied her a little more carefully. Five years ago, maybe even two, she'd probably been pretty. Maybe more than pretty. He tried to imagine her face without the circles under her eyes and her red hair draping softly over her shoulders rather than teased and sprayed into a stringy cloud. Tried to imagine her eyes alert rather than glazed over. He wondered how this girl could have ended up differently if she'd been born in a different place or a different family. If someone had taken her by the hand once upon a time and shown her how to hope for something more than her next fix.

There was a bruise on one cheek badly covered with make up; someone'd hit her. Could have been a client, could have been her pimp or one of the other girls. It probably wasn't the first time.

And it wasn't her first time at the police station. He'd looked over her file—a history of arrests mostly on solicitation and drug charges with a couple of petty theft and one assault charge dating back to her mid teens. But this time, of course, was different. When they'd brought her in she made a point of acting casual, this was old hat, but he had enough practice reading people to tell that what she'd been through that night had really shaken her.

He walked into the interrogation room and sat down across the table from her. She stared back at him defiantly.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked as he sat down.

"I'd kill for a shot of tequila," she said in a practiced monotone.

"I think your options are probably coffee or water," he said.

"I'll pass."

"Nice to meet you Ms. Balsom, I'm Special Agent McBain with the FBI," he said.

"Cut the Ms. Balsom shit," she snapped, "let's just get this over with." She propped her elbows on the table and let her head fall into her hands.

"Okay," he said unphased by her tone, "I want to talk to you about what happened tonight."

"You don't want to talk," she said back in monotone, peering at him through a window made by her fingers, "I know exactly what you want you sick fuck."

"Really?" he said.

She lowered her hands from her face and leaned farther forward, flashing as much cleavage as possible. "I be nice to you, you be nice to me. I give you a freebie and you let me go. I've been through this before."

"Excuse me?" he asked as her meaning sunk in. Was she toying with him, trying to act obnoxious, or did she really think she was under arrest? Or was this some sort of coping mechanism, denial?

In a business like manner she continued. "Hand job only. You can ask around that's all I give out. Anything else ain't worth the bail money unless you have me for something a whole lot bigger than whoring."

"I don't think you understand-" he began before she seemed to change her mind immediately.

"Okay, I'll tell you what," she shrugged, "you're better looking than the local trash and it might be fun to have an FBI guy story. So if that's what it's gonna take to get me out of here tonight I'll go down on you. But not in this room. I'm not putting on a show for your friends." She motioned to the two way mirrors across one wall.

"For starters, Ms. Balsom-"

"Natalie," she corrected shedding her jacket to reveal a low-cut halter top, "please."

"Natalie," he said slowly, "I don't drop charges in exchange for sexual favors."

"Well you'd be a first," she said sitting back.

"If you have the names of any officers who have done so in the past, I'll see that they answer for it," he added.

"Sure you will," she rolled her eyes.

He met her gaze making it clear how serious he was. "Make sure I get a list before you leave tonight."

She eyed him suspiciously. She probably had every right to. He'd been in this line of work long enough to know that the good guys weren't always as good as they should be, especially to women like her. "Why do you care?"

"Because having a badge doesn't entitle them to break the law."

"Tell them that," she grumbled.

"I will," he promised. "I also want you to understand that you're not being charged with anything."

"I'm not?" she asked. She sounded surprised. Confused. As though it hadn't even entered her mind that she could be brought to this place and treated like anything other than a criminal.

"You're here as a witness."

She didn't say anything she just pulled her feet up onto the chair, hugging her knees, flashing quite a bit of white thigh, but for once there was nothing sexualized about the gesture. If he hadn't been before he was now certain that she'd seen something and whatever it was had really shaken her up.

"How well did you know Alexander Melikov?" he asked.

She regained her composure quickly. "Biblically," she said raising an eyebrow suggestively at him.

"Was he a regular?"

She shook her head, "Not of mine in particular, but he came around pretty often. We all knew who he was."

"And what did you know about him exactly?"

Her feet slipped back to the floor, she relaxed slightly as she talked. "He paid good," she said, "which is generally all I need to know about them. And, you know, he wasn't a sicko or anything. Didn't hit you or ask you to do anything too twisted. The only thing was-"

She stopped herself and he looked up interested. "Yes?" he asked.

A look of discomfort came across her face. "You know he's married. Has a couple of kids. Most guys like that they wanna do it in their car, maybe a hotel room. He always wanted to take you home. Like while his wife was out of town or shopping or whatever. I think he got off on sneaking us in and out of there. It just… made you feel kind of cheap. And I'm not, for the record." She leaned forward flashing an eyeful of cleavage again and smiling.

"I'm sure," he said smiling back in spite of himself, "So that's why you were at his house today?"

She nodded.

A pen poised in his hand he said gently, not wanting to scare her now that she was cooperating, "I need you to tell me everything that happened today from the time you met up with Mr. Melikov."

"He came by early," she said, "just as it was starting to get dark. Paid cash up front—my rule. In the car on the way to his place he said his wife was coming home and we had to be quick. That's fine with me--I'd just as soon get it over with. We were just, you know, getting started-" She paused and glanced at him; that look of defiance coming back, "You need details on what we were doing?" It wasn't an actual question, she was saying it to shock him, but he opted not to confront her on this.

"I have the idea," he said, "what happened then?"

"We heard the front door—someone came in. We thought it was his wife. I gotta tell you, guys like that, they act like they ain't scared of anything, but Alex was scared shitless of getting caught by his wife. So he shoves me in this closet, throws my boots in after me, and tells me not to make a sound. He promised to pay me extra when it was all over…" Her voice cracked slightly and she stopped herself. "Guess I'm never gonna see that money."

"Then what happened?" he asked patiently.

"We thought it was his wife," she repeated, "but the footsteps were too heavy and there were too many of them. I realized they were guys… more than one."

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"I didn't see any of them," she said, "I stayed hidden."

"So what did you hear?"

She shrugged and shook her head, "I didn't hear much. It didn't make any sense to me."

"Can you remember any of it?" he prodded gently.

"Alex asked how they got in, what they were doing there. One of them said that he could come in and out wherever he wanted and that Alex should know why he was there."

"What else did they say?"

She shook her head, staring at the wall; he could see she was trying hard to remember. "Something about a shipment. Alex had done something the other guy found out about… Then the other guy said, 'You knew what would happen… you knew what I would do.'" She hugged one knee again as she trailed off.

"Natalie?" he said, "what happened next?"

"Alex started begging. He said it wouldn't happen again. Said, 'You need me.' Offered the guy money…"

"And then?"

"There was a bang," she said. "They shot him. It took me a second… I didn't know what it was at first. And then I just froze. I didn't know what to do—I wanted to scream but they didn't know I was there and I knew I couldn't let them find me."

She was trembling now, the hardened exterior almost totally stripped away. He hated to keep pushing but he needed more information than that. "Did you hear anything else?"

"I think they left… I don't know. I heard Alex making some sounds. Like gurgling. Like a baby almost," there were tears in her eyes but her voice still sounded numb. "I kept thinking I should go help him, but I couldn't move. And then it just got quiet. It seemed like forever and then I heard a woman screaming and there were more loud footsteps and I kept thinking 'they're back, they're gonna find me'…"

"And that's when the officers found you in the closet?"

She nodded mutely.

"Natalie, I need you to think," he said, "the other man, do you have any idea who he was?"

She shook her head, "I didn't see him."

"His voice? Did it seem familiar at all?" it was a long shot but Alexander Melikov wasn't the only underworld figure known to frequent prostitutes. There was always the possibility this girl had encountered whoever it was before.

She bit her lip as she thought. "I don't usually pay much attention to voices… guys aren't usually interested in talking. He had an accent."

"What kind of accent?" he asked. "Russian?"

"I don't think so," she said, "Spanish maybe, South American or something. I don't know I-" She stopped suddenly and he knew she'd figured something out, "Santi. Santi, Santos, something like that. Alex said it I think it was his name."

He sat forward. He hadn't expected Santi to be behind this, not that he was shocked, but he hadn't traced a connection between the Santi family and the Russians yet. "You're sure?" he asked, though there was no reason she should make this up and very little chance it was a coincidence.

She nodded.

"Thank you," he said, "you've been a big help."

He started to stand up when she asked in her perfect monotone, "Am I gonna get killed for telling you that? I'm not saying I really care, I'd just like to know."

He sat back down. She'd been honest with him, blunt even. He owed her the same courtesy. "Doubtful," he said, "hopefully now that you've given us the lead towards the Santis we'll be able to gather enough evidence that we won't even need your testimony."

She looked at him steadily; she could tell he was holding back. "But if I do have to testify? I've seen the movies."

He studied this girl again. She was a curiosity. One half practiced sex goddess one half frightened little girl. Ninety-percent of the time she could convince you she was numb, all business, no emotion, but every now and then he caught glimpses of pain that he suspected went back a long way. And even though he knew he might not be able to, he wanted to save this little girl. Wanted to protect her. "I'll do everything I can to keep you safe," he promised.

She nodded, her eyes focused on the table, startling him with how fragile she looked suddenly. Impulsively, he reached for her hand, "Natalie, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

She stared at him with glassy blue eyes—eyes that seemed so much older than she was. He wanted to comfort her somehow, but couldn't think of any assurance he could honestly offer. She was involved with dangerous people; there was no way he could promise she'd be all right. "Is there anyone you'd like me to call for you?" he asked. He looked down at her file again. "I have contact information for your mother, Roxanne Balsom-"

She snorted. "She's not my mother."

He looked at her in confusion. "I'm sorry. Your file says-"

"I'm sure it does," she said, "but she's _not_ my mother."

"You two don't get along," he said. It made sense; girls from supportive families didn't wind up where she was.

"You're not listening to me," she said, "I don't mean she doesn't act like my mother, although she doesn't. I'm saying she's _not_ my mother. We share no DNA."

He looked back at the file as though there were going to be an explanation there, but without being asked she provided one. "The first time I got arrested, when I was seventeen. The assault charge. It was her boyfriend and by the way," she said glaring at him, "he deserved it. She was passed out the neighbors heard screams and called the police. So after they take me away they call her up there to bail me out and she comes up there and just blurts it all out. She says she's not going to pay to get me out. She's not gonna shell out another dime for me and she shouldn't have to 'cause I'm not her kid. Apparently her dead husband brought me home when I was a baby and I have this whole other family somewhere else only, she doesn't know where or who or what they think happened to me."

"You think she was telling the truth?"

She nodded. "Makes too much sense. I don't really remember my dad, or the guy who claimed to be, but he was sketch enough to be involved in something like that. Plus, after he died his sister came and took my little brother away, but she wouldn't take me. Said I wasn't her responsibility. And now I know why. Besides," she said touching her hair, "everyone else in the family is blond."

It was a crazy story, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. If it was, it shouldn't be that hard to prove. So he couldn't promise to save her life or save her soul but maybe he could do this for her. "We could check it out," he offered, "run a DNA test, check out any unsolved kidnapping cases from back then. If you do have another family we could track them down-"

"And I could show up at their door and say, 'Hi! I'm your long lost daughter the drug whore!'?" she finished, "I'll pass."

He resisted the urge to put an arm around her. "I'm sure they'd just be glad to know what happened to you."

She shook her head and closed her eyes, "They're better off hoping for the best. Not knowing the truth."

He studied her face again. He had a lot of practice reading faces; she wasn't going to be talked into this. Knowing he probably shouldn't he scribbled on a slip of paper and slipped it across to her. "If you change your mind or you think of anything else or you need anything… this is my cell. Seriously, you need anything day or night, don't hesitate to call. Thank you for all your help."

"Yeah," she said softly as he stood up, "you too."

* * *

Later that evening he was sitting at the kitchen table, trying desperately to distract himself with the sports section when something dropped on the paper. He picked up a pair of pink knitted baby booties tied together with long laces. He looked up at Caitlin with questioning eyes. 

"Present for you," she explained.

"I don't understand," he said dangling them by the bow, "do I hang it from my rearview?"

She looked at him with a mixture of horror and amusement. "You could, but I thought they'd look better on your daughter's feet."

"Daughter?" he asked.

"Daughter." She patted her rounded stomach and slipped him an ultrasound photo, "You totally forgot about the appointment today, didn't you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I did," he admitted, "I'm sorry. We had this big case come up-"

"It's okay," she reassured him, "I knew you were a workaholic when I married you. Just… you know if you could make it there for the delivery…"

"Try and stop me," he said smiling up at her and kissing her hand. As she strolled over to the refrigerator he studied the photo. That was his daughter; his little girl. He tried to concentrate on her; tried to imagine her in a few years, in five, in ten. But no matter how hard he stared at the photo he kept seeing a pair of glassy blue eyes and thinking about another little girl.

He wondered if she really did have another mother somewhere else. A mother that must miss her desperately. Another mother who might have knitted her little pink booties and planned for her future. A future that had basically ended sometime before that little girl should have graduated from high school. A future she'd sold along with her body until she didn't even care if she got killed. He knew better than to expect life to be fair, but that little girl had deserved so much better. Better than a world where dying men gurgled like babies. She deserved a big loving family, a comfortable home, and love she wasn't getting paid for.

And while he didn't want to admit it, there wasn't a whole lot he could do for that little girl. He fingered the booties and smiled sadly. In the end, the only thing he could do was create the best possible life he could for his little girl.

Fin.


End file.
